


Our Men

by AnnieVH



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Humor, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Relationship Advice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-20
Updated: 2014-09-20
Packaged: 2018-02-18 02:15:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2331476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnieVH/pseuds/AnnieVH
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Colonel kidnaps John and asks difficult questions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Men

**Author's Note:**

> Reposting an old fic (had already been posted on ff.net). Corrected some grammar mistakes and did some small changes. Of my Sherlock fics, this is actually my favorite.
> 
> In response to this prompt from the Sherlock Kink Meme: [http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/6487.html?thread=32289111#t32289111]
> 
> WARNINGS: mentions of violence. And brief mentions of slavery and rape.

You had to praise Mycroft's originality. Most kidnaps you'd wake up in a dirty place with a massive headache and no idea how long you'd been lying on the floor, choking on your drool. The limo picking him up after that soft but emphatic phone call was not your everyday snatch from the streets.  
  
This, however, was. Moriarty could take a lesson or two from Sherlock's brother.  
  
John blinked and dust got in his eyes. He cursed. A cold voice responded, "I hope you don't have allergies." When John's eyes cleared, he saw the man many referred to simply as The Colonel standing close to him, holding the hood that had covered his face a few seconds before. Even if the shiny automatic weren't in sight he'd still be an imposing figure with his massive shoulders and merciless expression – above his left brow John could see the scar he had given him the first and last time they'd met, in a quite similar situation except Sherlock was the one tied to the creaky old chair eating dust. He didn't seem happier now than when John had slashed him with his pocket knife.  
  
The man gave him a quick nod. "Evening, Doctor."  
  
John tried moving his fingers. His wrists were cuffed in front of him and his ankles were restrained by what felt like duct tape. He tried to look out of the only window in the room. "Is it?"  
  
With very slow steps, Moran walked to the window and lowered the broken blinds. Ever so calm, so in control. Even when Mycroft had held him at gun point demanding to know the location of his brother he had remained impassive, watching the other man slowly descend to near madness and despair – something that had turned to anger quite quickly when not only the man fled with nothing but a deep cut on his forehead, but also Sherlock was found strapped to a recently-disarmed death trap looking utterly bored and demanding, "What took you idiots so long? I'm actually _hungry_."  
  
"Nice place. Creative," John said, taking in the narrow room where boxes and dirt seemed to pile up.  
  
"Privacy," Moran muttered, checking the streets through the blinds.  
  
"You should tell your boss he's wasting his time," said John.  
  
"Is that right?" Moran deadpanned.  
  
"Sherlock is out of the country at the moment. He won't even realize I'm gone until he gets back. And only the British Government can say when that's going to be."  
  
Moran stepped away from the window and paced the room, gun hanging from his hand casually like it was part of his arm.  
  
John asked, "When is he getting here?"  
  
"Who?"  
  
"Moriarty."  
  
"He's not coming."  
  
"Really?"  
  
"He happens to be out of the country as well."  
  
"Chasing Sherlock."  
  
Though it wasn't a question, Moran gave him a condescending smile. "He's out working."  
  
"Don't doubt that for a second," said John, looking around the dirty room, trying to come up with a plan of action. "Typical of him to send people to do his dirty work."  
  
"Jim's got nothing to do with this," Moran answered, waving the thought away. "He'd be quite bothered I brought you here, in fact."  
  
John looked up  at Moran, meeting his eyes. No reason to lie, of course, and personal vengeance seemed a pretty reasonable justification, you don't just let the man who almost slashed your eye out walk away freely. At the very least, you cut away some of his fingers.  
  
At that thought, John pulled very softly at his restraints, trying not to look desperate. _Plan of action. Plan of action_. "Right. So this is personal."  
  
"Don't flatter yourself,"  he said, examining the gun as if he had never seen it before. Then sighed, let his arms hang for a while as he took in the room.  
  
His behavior made John feel even more on edge. He was in the presence of a mad man who resembled very much a ticking bomb that could explode at any moment.  
  
John demanded, "Then why would you kidnap me? For kicks?"  
  
Moran's mean face twitched as he chewed his own tongue, evaluating the situation. Then he snapped his mouth open and spat the question, wanting to get rid of it as fast as he could: "How do you get your man to clean after himself?"  
  
John didn't answer.  
  
"Experiments, I mean," Moran pressed. "How do you get him to clean up the mess?"  
  
The new information didn't help and John still couldn't provide an answer. Mostly because he wasn't sure what the question was. "I'm... sorry," He said, tentative. "What's happening now? Are you trying to collect data on Sherlock and me, because that's not-"  
  
"Yes! I'm after the vital information of his cleaning habits," Moran snapped, taking a step forward that made John throw his back against the old chair and shut. "Look, I don't like asking for it, but I'm over my head in this situation and I need a little help. If you refuse to give it to me, that's your problem, I can just shoot you and drop your body on your kitchen table and your head under his covers. It will help me feel better about the whole situation and, frankly, it will be a lot of fun. But it will solve nothing and I'll just have to start another morning with severed fingers in the bread bin."  
  
When he was sure Moran was done talking, John asked, very quietly, to make sure he understood it right, "You... want my help?"  
  
"Are you usually this slow?" Moran asked. Then muttered to himself, "I cannot believe he doesn't appreciate I'm a much better sidekick."  
  
"But... why?"  
  
"Because he's driving me crazy!" Moran shouted. "He uses the knives we eat with to butcher cadavers for fun! He painted the living room walls with human blood because he likes the color! He assembles bombs in the kitchen – those things explode, Doctor! Doesn't he know that, the self-called genius? He uses the remote control batteries to charge them and, and he only likes to watch _Criminal Minds_ and laugh at the criminals and he's just-just- _just_ \- UGH!!" Moran raised his gun and John was ready to start struggling against the duct tape when he turned to the boxes and fired six shots against a couple of them. More dust danced in the air and the deafening sound hung in the room for a minute or so while both of them breathed hard. Then, he pocketed his automatic and turned to John, like the a man who turns to his shrink after punching a pillow. "Pardon me. Now I feel much better."  
  
Though John's expression was of complete terror Moran didn't seem to appreciate – or even notice – that. With a little voice he could pull from deep inside his throat John lied, "That's okay."  
  
"So," Moran pressed. "What are we going to do?"  
  
"We. Uhn. We can work something out. I suppose."  
  
Moran gave him a mean smile. "I think you mean we _will_ work something out."  
  
"Yes. Yes. We will. Uhn." John searched his mind, trying to come up with good enough advice. He wasn't good coming up with that kind of thing when he was relax ed and tucked in his bed, trying to think of the best way to keep Sherlock from exploding things in the kitchen. To actually have to come up with a solution for a murderous stranger with a gun to his head and a headache was virtually impossible. "Yes, I don't know, I can tell you what I did."  
  
"Good," Moran said, patronizingly, but happy to know John had finally understood what that was all about.  
  
Knowing whatever he was about to say would probably be wrong, John tried the obvious, easy solution, trying to read Moran's stony face as he shared the information. "Well. Uhn. I. Uhn. This may not work for you, but I tried to talk first. And share the kitchen. This side of the worktop is mine. This is yours and. Your stuff can't cross the line. To mine. Side."  
  
Moran kept staring at him, impassive.  
  
"And if he keeps things to his side, then I don't complain. And we label everything. Pickles, human eyes. Bombs."  
  
Again, nothing.  
  
"And if the batteries thing drives you mad, you could buy extra batteries. And TiVo. Or a new TV."  
  
More silence.  
  
"Does that sound acceptable to you?"  
  
"I'm fairly disappointed at the lack of originality of your ideas," Moran said, but he didn't seem angry anymore.  
  
John rushed to apologize, as his mind tried to find a better answer. "Sorry. You tried them already?"  
  
"No. They are very unimaginative."  
  
"Ah," John said. "They work, though."  
  
"Hm. We'll see," Moran agreed. He thought a bit more. Said, "You do the shopping."  
  
"I do."  
  
"I know. I hate doing the shopping."  
  
"Me too."  
  
"How do I get Jim to do the shopping?"  
  
"Don't. Trust me. Just _don't_." When Moran frowned, it was more with curiosity than frustration at the useless answer. "Sherlock bought us a year's supply of jam last time he went to the shop. Trust me, you're better on your own."  
  
Moran hummed, appreciating the answer, wondering if that was a reasonable compromise. John waited, hoping that meeting wouldn't end with a cheerful "Okay, thank you" and gunshot.  
  
"I suppose that's acceptable," Moran nodded. "Though a years supply of hand grenades would probably mean considerable savings."  
  
 _Where do you do your shopping?_  
  
"And what about the things you wan t to do?"  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"Exploding things are fun and I appreciate the execution of most of his plans. They're quite elegant, actually. Creativity, that's what I signed for. But I have my life, my own interests to look after."  
  
"Such as... going out on dates? Movies? Family dinners?"  
  
"Killing my own foes," he stated, with simplicity.  
  
"Ah."  
  
"Not yourself."  
  
"Good," John breathed. "Though you did kidnap me without his knowledge."  
  
"He's out of the country and didn't take me with him."  
  
"Is he out a lot?" John asked.  
  
"That's classified information."  
  
 _But the fact you live together and buy hand grenades with your groceries is not._  
  
Out loud, John said, "I only ask because that could be good for you."  
  
"Let's just say he's not out enough for me to do all the things I'd like  to do."  
  
"You have an exclusivity contract?"  
  
"Something like that."  
  
"What about a day off?"  
  
Moran glared at him, as if finally understanding he was talking to a very stupid person. "Henchmen aren't exactly unionized."  
  
"Sucks," John said. "What about doing the things you need in between cases?"  
  
With a very heavy sigh, Moran paced the room. "Well, it seems like the only option, doesn't it? And he's at least paying me for my time."  
  
 _Bastard_.  
  
"Alright. And sex?"  
  
For a moment, John forgot how to breathe.  
  
Moran asked again, "How do you handle his low libido?"  
  
"We're not sleeping together."  
  
Moran laughed. He actually laughed to his face. "Right. Neither are we because we live in a crime world that is still ruled by homophobic straight males who'd rather be caught dead than working for an Irish sissy." He leaned forward. "And being caught dead is actually the alternative." And winked. John felt the corners of his mouth turning up but pushed them down quickly.  He was not about to share a smile with a killer.  
  
Moran kept staring, waiting for a response that John truly didn't have. He did think about directing The Colonel to wikihow.com, but if the other man ever found out the internet had the answer to everything John feared he'd become disposable. So he remained quiet again, much to Moran's frustration.  
  
"Look!" Moran urged him. "Unless he's killed something on the past twenty four hours I don't get any. And God forbid I try to get some when he's teasing your precious little detective. Lately, I'm lucky to get it three times a month."  
  
"Well, I don't- three times?"  
  
"If I'm lucky!"  
  
"Wow. And are you exclusive?"  
  
"He sure doesn't handle me getting some on the side very well."  
  
John deduced, "He put gun to her- _his_ head-"  
  
" _Her_ head is fine."  
  
"Good," John sighed.  
  
"And she's actually quite popular in the illegal brothel in Rwanda where she's currently and permanently locked in."  
  
John's face couldn't fight back disgust. "That's- that's... that's a really big overreaction."  
  
"Oh, you think?" Moran snapped back. "Then why don't we find a way to get me laid with the one person I'd rather be sleeping with so I won't have to sell another one night stand into forced slavery?"  
  
John considered the issue. "Have you tried... torture porn?"  
  
" _Of course I tried torture porn, you idiot_!"  
  
"Right! Right! My therapist says it's... healthy to... talk about your feelings."  
  
Moran glared at him.  
  
John nodded. "Okay. Psychopaths don't dig relationship talk. Can't really say that I blame you. Alright. Uhn... If you don't mind me asking, how do you approach the... issue."  
  
"I say I want sex. He says he's not in the mood. We throw stuff and make death threats."  
  
"Very healthy." When Moran glared at him, John add, "Well, well. Some people respond well to compliments."  
  
"He's not a low self-esteem chick, he's a bloke! I'm not go ing to call him _pretty_!"  
  
"Even so, maybe you could, uhn, you  could compliment him on his brain power. As in... the way you put this bomb together is brilliant. Or you could help put the... bomb... together. I dunno."  
  
Moran nodded slowly, considering the idea. "That's actually a rather good idea."  
  
"Oh. Good."  
  
"Yes, now that you mentioned it, I think he was hinting me something like that the other night. He told me to pass him the remote control batteries. Maybe I shouldn't have tried to shove them up his arse."  
  
John flinched. "Probably not."  
  
"Yes, maybe I should give him your severed head as a peace offering." Moran said, pensive, debating the issue with himself as if John wasn't even there.  
  
"But then..." John said, with a dry mouth. "What if you need some more advice?"  
  
Moran seemed to consider that and, after a moment, he shrugged and turned to the window. "You're probably right. And I'm going to kill you anyway. I bet he wouldn't want to miss that. Plus, if I got after his nemesis' boyfriend-"  
  
"Not his boyfriend."  
  
"-without his permission it would probably cause more harm than good." He checked the streets outside again. When he didn't say anything for a few minutes, John asked, "Anything else you'd like to ask?"  
  
"Pardon?" He looked back, remembering John was still there, tied to a chair. "Oh, no. No. We're good." He took a knife out of his back pocket. John sat up straight, knowing his teeth wouldn't really be a very good weapon, but that they would be better than nothing. Moran said, "You keep still. Try to kick me and I'll cut your feet off instead." And he knelt down to cut the duct tape on John's ankles. He got up. "Now, let's evaluate your situation. I've got a gun and you don't. You've got a massive headache, I do not. I have both my hands free, you not so much. You want to chase me down the stairs and die, feel free to do so, but I strongly suggest you count to one thousand before you get up and go fetch yourself a taxi."  
  
John gave him a slow nod. "I couldn't agree more with you."  
  
Moran smiled. "Thank you once again, Doctor."  
  
"You're very welcom-"  
  
John's head snapped to the side and his neck made a very loud sound when Moran hit him with his gun. When his vision cleared, he could see The Colonel was still smiling. "And that was for the scar, Doctor. Be glad I didn't poke your eyes out. Now, start counting." And left.  


  
  
  


 


End file.
